


wait, search, find, die

by grayglube



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1970202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's daddy to the apocalypse, one day he might be grandpa to the antichrist, he's the first in the long line to come of spoiled hellish royalty, he figures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wait, search, find, die

**Author's Note:**

> Slight dub-con mentions. For ohyellowbird who makes me write stuff.

He tries not to think about the girls his life has revolved around, warped around. His mother. Gone, for real in the only real way she could ever be gone, abandoned and left behind he’s moved back in to the ancestral home. His sister lulled and comforted by a thorazine high as Pryce works on. His sacrifice of more years given to the Godfrey altar. His half-sister, dead. Miranda, another in a long line of girls who thought, self-important and so dumb, that they were worth more than their bodies, except maybe, Roman knows Miranda was, to him, but not to everyone else. Then there’s his daughter, conceived in an incestuous bed under violent means, raised on the blood of innocents, nannied by she-devils in white caps and a pediatrician with snakeskin shoes.

He wonders what he’s going to do. Wait or search or find and die, he wonders what their plans are. It’s been one year and then two, nothing and his daughter is growing up, he wonders if she’s growing fast, if and when they’ll start trying to breed her for devil spawn, He hires people who work with Nostradamus prediction texts and astrologers, fakes, all, none of them can predict a reasonably timed apocalypse.

He focuses on Shelly and Pryce, forgets about his mother.

Peter broods, Roman’s another blonde and he never seems to have any luck with them, third time might actually kill him, he jokes but Roman is serious when he asks if Peter wants him to dye his hair.

He dreams, normal dreams, unshared for a while.

One night he wakes up, blond hair and blood, Miranda’s on her chest, Letha’s between her thighs, he put his mouth on both. In the dream.

And Peter is at the door.

Shared dreams.

Letha.

It’s funny how it never mattered once she died, how there was never any fear about Peter finding out, because if he did, when he did, well, Roman knew what it would mean. But the world’s at stake.

Isn’t it always? It just seems important when it’s personal.

Roman doesn’t feel special, he feels fucked, his destiny is like one of those horses his father had, just some squirming racing sperm ready to implant in the womb of something that wanted to eat the entire world. How useless.

So Peter fucks him, calls it rape and Roman’s ass is sore, he makes a joke after Peter’s down punching and fucking and crying about another girl who found her way onto both their dicks, a surrogate for someone else.

Letha, Miranda, and some days Roman wants to die.

Some days Peter tries to kill him.

Roman tolerates things with a careful regimen of coke and horse soup, still sometimes he misses the days of high school girls, the all-encompassing high, better than anything, of looking at someone and having them do whatever he wanted, he wonders if he’s lost it in the sensation of everything else, all the other highs. 

He wishes the change in him that came with Peter leaving the first time was real, changed for the better, he’s tried to be good, as well as he can be good. Careless fucks and screaming at Godfrey employees, throwing tantrums like a spoilt prince. 

It’s a departure from the deep seed of something in his soul that’s not good, a carbon black hole in the fabric of space and time. Useless, he decides. Fuck it, he says.


End file.
